by Stephen R. Smith | Sep 16, 2011 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Doctor Spake slipped the needle into the fatty flesh of the rat and depressed the plunger, then withdrew and watched.
“This rat is almost three years old,” the Doctor addressed the Senator standing opposite him, “virtually at the end of its lifespan as you can see by its appearance.
The Senator regarded the withered rat with distaste. The benefits of this science appealed to him, but the specifics and the dirty work was for others; he had no interest and little patience.
In the cage, the rat began to become noticeably more agitated, its sparse and flat fur visibly thickening, taking on a healthy looking sheen.
This the Senator took interest in.
“What’s happening to the rat? It looks like it’s getting…”
“Younger.” Spake cut him off. “The injected nano-tech has reverted the rat to roughly a third of its expired life.”
Senator Thrush looked back and forth between Spake and the rat, which was now feeding aggressively.
“You’re sure about this? Sure that this will work? I know what you said, but this…” Thrush regarded the Doctor as though seeing him for the first time. “Why haven’t you used this on yourself? You still look to be…” he paused, “sixty?”
“Eighty two, actually. Thank you. I installed an earlier version of the nano myself before I’d perfected the regression capabilities, and I’m afraid my installed version is incompatible with this one. It does have its benefits, for example I’m better at developing connections, if you know what I mean.” Spake smiled, a practiced, reassuring smile.
It took forty five more minutes to convince the Senator, and by morning Thrush left feeling and looking like a man half his age.
Months later Senator Thrush had achieved all but the most lofty of his personal goals, taking his party’s nomination from the incumbent in a landslide, his sights set firmly on The White House.
As he sat in his office late one evening, a warm summer breeze stirring the leaves of the tree outside, a fifteen year old bottle of Macallan disappearing one glass at a time, he found himself thinking of the Doctor. There had been messages that he’d been too busy to return, and he wondered if he should contract someone to keep an eye on the good Doctor, lest he forget his place.
Thrush suddenly felt ill, the room swimming around him. He pushed his glass away on the desk, trying without success to steady himself against the dark heavy expanse of mahogany.
“Senator Thrush. You’ve been negligent in fulfilling your end of our agreement.”
Thrush vomited on his desk, the voice coming from everywhere and nowhere, his head pounding.
“I told you my nano advantage was dependent on connections? Do you remember that Senator?”
Blood dripped from Thrush’s sinus, spattering on the desk.
“Specifically those connections are what you may know as quantum entanglements. They tie two distinct and different things together, like atoms, at a quantum level.”
Thrush felt his legs go numb, heavy and no longer under his control. Pins and needles itching his fingertips, crawling up his arms to his shoulders.
“While the good Doctor will have died of an apparent heart failure this evening in his lab, it wouldn’t be fair for a politician to never grow old, to benefit from the Doctor’s life work without having ever contributed anything himself. Would it?”
Thrush blinked, for a moment he could swear there were steel benches surrounding him, cool white tile against his cheek. Then blackness overtook him.
Spake flexed his limbs, massaging the numbness from his forearms and fingers.
Then he sat, removed a tissue from a box on the desktop and wiped absently at the blood on his upper lip.
“Senator ‘Spake’ Thrush, PhD.” The Doctor formed the words with his new mouth. As he poured himself another glass of Scotch he added “I rather like the sound of that.”
by submission | Sep 15, 2011 | Story |
Author : N.R.Messer
I’ve been going at it for months now. Searching, weeping, trying to find her — my Angelica. But, in my haste to undo the past, my desire to forge my own fate has quite possibly damned me from the start of this journey.
Although married for four years, Angelica and I were still very young-and very much in love. I, a physics major and she, a student of veterinary medicine, lived in very different worlds. But our lives collided and swirled together beautifully from the start. On a crisp, white, December night, in a pub drunk on spirits and holiday cheer, our life together began. So it’s not without theatrical spin and romantic fate that she would bring me to that very pub-years after our vows-to tell me she was dying.
Malignant Intracranial Neoplasm-brain tumor.
I felt as if I were in a mid-day nightmare, it couldn’t possibly be true. But; after months of treatment and referral, I accepted the inevitable. I was soon to lose my best friend, my lover, my companion.
There were options though-there were always options. Options however, that didn’t come without risk. Brain damaged, comatose, or the already inevitable deatd — but found much earlier. Regardless of my pleas, she accepted her fate.
Not long after her funeral, in a drunken stupor-made light by not even the lowest of self pity-I realized I had not in fact accepted what she so calmly had, that fateful evening on Bewer Street.
In a move of pure desperation, I sold every worthwhile item in my possession, and invested in blind hope and heartfelt raging passion. With all my financial and mental prowess, I designed, engineered, constructed, and executed a machine with the intent of crossing over to a parallel world. A world in which my love was still alive. But when I found only a gravestone and suicidal doppleganger, I plunged myself towards the next prospective universe. World after world, grave after grave.
I began to find comfort in the idea of suicide myself, as I strayed further and stranger away from my home world.
A renewal of faith came to me in the form of a double-edged sword after I crackled through the quantum walls of one particular world, when I found only browning grass at the increasingly familiar cemetery plot. She was still alive. The second sword’s edge struck me however, when I discovered a terminally ill Angelica waiting for death’s cold hand, in the same hospital we spent so many late nights in before. Those blessed-but brief-last weeks were, for me, a message from God himself. Press onward.
But now I question from which god the message came. Months I’ve traveled now, and at every crossing, the worlds become stranger, more…alien. I wonder how long, if in no time at all, until I find myself in a world in which Angelica was never even conceived. But onward I continue. Barreling through on a single straight path. Knocking through unseen barriers like sheets of rice paper. I must decide soon: continue on blind? Or discover a way to turn around. Before it’s too late for even myself.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Sep 14, 2011 | Story |
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“Jesus jumpin’ Christ,” ejaculated Cpl. Davidson before he died. Though clad in nearly impervious plasteele body armour, his head was cleanly ripped from his body.
“Run away, run away,” the rest of the men in his squad screamed as they fell pell mell over one another. The creatures went by different names; Bandersnatch, Grendel, Jabberwocky. Vicious Motherfuckers, or VM’s, was not an uncommon term.
Whatever they were, they certainly weren’t the creatures that created and piloted the immense spacecraft that had taken up residence in Earth orbit. No, these were brutal mindless beasts that appeared to kill and destroy anything without a conscious thought. A biological killing machine.
Lt. Fenwick let out a deep sigh as he watched his men hauling ass across the plain with a Jabberwock trailing close behind. Their enhanced speed, augmented by the armour, was no match for the creature. Much to the terror of the fleeing men, the beast quickly gained.
“Vorpal ready,” barked the Leftenant.
“Vorpal weapon ready, Sir,” replied his gunner.
“Wait for it.” The Lt. raised his field glasses just in time to see another of his men fall beneath the scythe-like claws of the beast. It paused just long enough to shred the hapless soldier before resuming the chase. The drawback of the Vorpal weapon was its range in an atmosphere. It spat a stream of tiny magnetically accelerated ferro/tungsten particles at seemingly relativistic velocities. In the near vacuum of space, the range was virtually limitless, in an atmosphere as dense as that of Earth however…
“Hold your fire until you have range,” Fenwick ordered as another of his men fell to the loathsome nightmare. The gun crew watched in anguish as their comrades died while they remained impotent until the bastard could be drawn within range.
“Wait for it… wait for it…” Despite the bunker’s chill conditions, imparted by the weapons coolant system, beads of sweat rolled down the young officer’s face . “Almost there… almost… FIRE!”
The Vorpal emitted a muted shushing sound as mag-accelerated particles, little larger than coarse sand, issued forth in a coherent pencil-thin stream. At hyper velocities the trillions of individual particles took on a solid aspect that sheared through the monsters nearly invulnerable exoskeleton and severed it neatly in two. Though mortally wounded, the torso of the Jabberwock still pursued its prey at speed with its four upper appendages and managed to slaughter another soldier before it expired.
Despite the daemon’s recent demise, the remaining men of the patrol continued to hastily beat feet back to the safety of the bunker. While the exhausted men shed their armour in the cramped bunker’s antechamber, Lt. Fenwick called his company HQ requesting a mortuary team to retrieve his fallen soldiers. Clicking his teeth, he logged off the company freq and turned to Master Gunnery Sergeant Kalnick.
“Bad day Gunny. Bad fuckin’ day.”
“Yeah LT. I just wish we could get a ‘wok alive.”
“Why? There’s nothing we can learn from them. They’re little more than a living automaton programmed to destroy. They’re mindless.”
“Yeah, I know. I just want to see how long one would hold out against my mother-in-law.”
by featured writer | Sep 13, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
I looked down at the riph on my wrist, remembering the days when phone, watch, PDA, wallet, cash, cards and ID were separate items.
Then I realised that I was late for my meeting, hadn’t got Susie a present and I was watching the rain melt a pigeon that wasn’t quick enough on the patio outside the penthouse. I flicked my wrist and the holographic display rose to confront me with everything. I waved the dailies into oblivion unread and poked the action tab, then requested an espresso while the queued diamond twirled rapidly, meaning I had only a short wait.
The aging robo had just whined my coffee to me when the diamond flashed and a charming, husky voice caressed my ears.
“Operator. How can Ri– Oh, hello Vince. How can I help today?”
I smiled. Shannon was my favourite operator, and of late she seemed to be online all the time.
“Hi Shannon. I need to get across town in under thirty, need to get Susie a medium value birthday present, plus it’s raining acid and lime outside.”
A throaty chuckle came from the riph, then stopped suddenly. The silence was curiously eerie. A minute or so passed.
“Vince, a Chariot repulsorlift will be at the residence’s enviro-gated pickup point in nine minutes. I have cleared routing for you to Jackson Holdings; you will arrive four minutes early. Susie’s present is unnecessary.”
I stared at the device.
“Shannon, how and what was that last item?”
“Jackson Holdings. You’ve been there frequently and I see from your legal feeds that you have received approval for your buyout. Priority routing is easy when my brother is section head at Police Headquarters and having a quiet day.”
“Seattle girl accused of abusing sibling bond for rich client.”
I smiled as I said it and her laughter sent tingles up my spine.
“Susie?”
“Sorry, Vince. As you bought her a service upgrade, I have her riph status up as part of your ambient.”
Her voice had gone quiet. I waited as déjà vu visited.
“It’s in paramour monitor mode. Sorry Vince. I really am.”
Susie had always been a bit too fond of my credit rating. Now my suspicions were confirmed. Not again.
“Shannon, can you downgrade her and give me a refund?”
“Yes Vince. Shall I action a breach of nuptial exclusivity salvage for you?”
I paused. That meant Susie and I were over before the nuptial bit really began. Then again, she was in bed with a paying customer right now.
“Do it. Authorisation to debit granted.”
“Done Vince. Full recoup except for the Thunderbirds tickets. They are ID bound and non refundable.”
Damn. The Thunderbirds were about to contest promotion rights with the Winterhawks. The winners got to play in the Mars Leagues. I had been looking forward to the game for months. A whole box, full hospitality, the works. I had been intending to propose properly to Susie at the end of the game.
Then I had a crazy idea.
“Are they transferrable?”
“Yes Vince. Providing you retain one.”
I activated a routine of questionable legality on my riph. It came back instantly.
“Vince, did I mistakenly detect a non-warranty persona query app?”
I smiled. This girl was good.
“No idea what you’re talking about, Shannon. Now please extend the usual invite, collection time and privacy moderation requests to Miss S. Carleton of Ravenna.”
“No problem Vince, I’m sure she’ll be thril-“
The eerie silence returned as she finally assimilated the invitee information. I found myself grinning like an idiot.
“See you at five, Miss Carleton.”
by Duncan Shields | Sep 12, 2011 | Story |
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
You’d expect a physically challenged, mentally retarded child born with a life expectancy of six years to figure out a crude way of getting around. Some simple crutches, perhaps. Or maybe a box to drag oneself around in.
You wouldn’t expect that child to build robot legs that worked.
That’s how the aliens saw us. They looked on us in pity and in fascination.
They came to us from space without the benefit of ships or space suits. They floated down on rippling bio-solar panel wings of unfurling grace. They were humanoid but much taller, bilaterally symmetrical like us. They had four more senses than us and were able to breathe in fourteen different atmospheres. Those solar sail wings could extend for fifty meters when fully extended in space. They were so very thin.
They looked like us for a reason.
And we didn’t look like them because we were deformed.
In this universe, they explained, there was only one dominant form of life.
Humans.
Planet Earth was seeded with that form of life but somewhere the replication got too many errors in it. A few missing pieces in the helix or a few too many where it counted. Our growth was stunted and our full potential squandered.
According to these superior versions of humans that wafted down from space, normal human beings kept every trait in the DNA that they’d gotten along the way and were supposed to flower in a second puberty around sixty years of age.
That second puberty would have us grow much taller, become psychic, kick all of our evolutionary traits into full-blown activation, and give us the ability to fly into space like a dandelion seed pushed by a gust of wind. And those wings could tesseract space. Living wormhole organs. The distances between stars made it necessary for them to have lifespans measured in thousands of years.
We felt jealous and ripped off. But also proud. These beings had no need for technology. They’d never invented radio or television. That explained the silence of space. They’d never had to invent spacecraft. They’d never had rocket technology or microwaves or chemistry or vacuum tubes. They could construct stable wormholes but they didn’t understand the math behind it.
We were a marvel to them. A doomed, stunted, tragic, tear-jerker of a marvel.
But they couldn’t read our minds. We lacked the broadcast and receiving apparatus. They learned our language in hours and communicated with us using their rarely used mouths. It was a novelty for them.
It gave us the time to mount an attack. Great minds must have thought alike because in a surprisingly effective military movement, as accidentally co-ordinated as it was spontaneous, all the countries of earth killed these super-humans.
The ones that could flee, fled. Around two-thirds. The rest of them fluttered like moths in jars, trying to get out of our buildings as our bullets tore holes in their paper bodies.
The brutality shocked them. They felt the trapped ones die in their minds. We haven’t seen them since. It’s likely that they have marked our planet as a no-go area.
Suits us fine.
However, we’ve been busy researching those bodies. Every country on Earth is in a race to see who can get the first patents. The first stable wormholes, the first space-faring wingsuits, the first immortality drugs, the first psychic warriors, the first amphibious soldiers, etc, etc.
And when the time comes, we’ll spread out amongst the stars ahead of schedule because of them. We’ll see who’s superior then.
